


Noise

by Blackbird Song (Blackbird_Song)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Challenge Response, Community: holmestice, Demisexual Sherlock, Demisexuality, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, Scars, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3084548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbird_Song/pseuds/Blackbird%20Song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John: "So you don't mind touch, then?"</p>
<p>Sherlock: "Not when I understand its purpose."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piplover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piplover/gifts).



> Written for the Holmestice 2014 December Fanworks Exchange Challenge. Also my first time writing them without a zombie challenge as a prompt.
> 
> Many thanks to my husband for the beta.

  
  
His life is silence. Even in the middle of London's noise, John hears nothing. When he talks to his patients at the clinic it's as if he's lip-reading and mouthing – a bit like a conversation between mimes in a scene. Sherlock's in hospital. Mrs Hudson – well, he hasn't really seen much of her except when he arrives at Baker Street early on his day off. Even then, she just mouths something he thinks he remembers hearing before she scuttles away. Just as well, all things considered. He relishes the chance to sleep alone at 221B in a way he never thought he would.  
  
But one night he wakes up trying to scream because Mary's just pushed Moriarty off St. Bart's and he can't figure out why that disturbs him so much until he remembers that he liked Moriarty in the dream.  
  
And then it hits him how much he misses her face. The fact that he sees it every day when he checks on her as they had agreed only deepens the silence. He can't hear anything from her.  
  
Equally troubling is how the medical instruments in Sherlock's hospital room don't make any noise. And then there's Sherlock. He drifts in and out of consciousness, they say, though John doesn't exactly hear them. And it seems as though Sherlock's eyes close and he slips down into sleep almost as soon as he sets eyes on John.  
  
John's angry. Mary's utter falsehood has brought back all the hurt of Sherlock's betrayal and even though it's been a month since she and Sherlock all but ganged up on him and made everything his fault, he can still taste the bitterness in every fibre of his being. The only reason he's sleeping at Baker Street is because he can't afford to pay for his own flat and he can't stand to sleep at home. Or what he thought had been home. And the only reason he can't afford a place of his own – apart from London's enormous expense – is that he has to save up whatever he can to support his impending child and the woman who's gestating it. He was brought up properly and he won't shirk that task, even if every last person around him is a fucking psychopath.  
  
Sometimes the silence is deafeningly loud.  


*****

It isn't until about four weeks in – thirty-one days, to be exact – that John catches sight of something that shakes the noise back into his life. It's such a small thing, something he sees every day. Just a man's naked back as the gown falls open when he turns or walks. Or breathes.  
  
But what John sees sends him straight back to Afghanistan, where soldiers wounded in combat hadn't been his only charges. Where cigarette burns and whip wheals had been regular, if uncommon, occurrences. He can time the ones he sees now to within a week of their infliction just on the basis of their colouration and degree of swelling. He knows the instant he sees them which ones will be permanent and which have a chance of subsiding altogether. He also knows, from their placements and size, how much they'd hurt the average man.  
  
But they're not on the average man, which is why the noise of the hospital now plunges in on John as he hones in on the near-inaudible gasp that Sherlock makes whilst turning over.  
  
In that moment, the betrayals that have shackled and deafened him break apart from each other and present him with choices he's not sure he can manage, so he bides his time until Sherlock falls back to sleep and then he enters the room. He'd run his hand over the scars and bumps just for tactile proof of their reality, but that would both wake and hurt Sherlock to greater extents than John is willing to inflict. Besides, he's none too sure how his body would respond if he touched Sherlock right now.  
  
"It's all right, John. You can touch them. You are a doctor, after all."  
  
John doesn't so much jump at Sherlock's voice as feel his skin suddenly run away. It's a bit unsettling, so he swallows.  
  
"Get on with it, will you?" Sherlock trembles, pulling in on himself.  
  
John doesn't have gloves with him, so he aims for the contiguous areas of skin, forcing himself to be professional in his touch. He's always had a good touch, he's been told.  
  
Sherlock doesn't flinch, but when John reaches a spot just below the right scapula, the breath becomes a hiss and the muscles go rigid for a second.  
  
John probes the spot as gently as he can, his medical senses on full alert. "Bruised rib?"  
  
"Yes." It's soft and tense.  
  
"They take some time to heal."  
  
"So I've been told."  
  
"So you weren't just faffing off."  
  
"I told you I was dismantling Moriarty's network. Could that ever be considered 'faffing off'?"  
  
John expels a breath he thought he'd released long ago. "No." He rubs his brow with the hand that's not absently soothing Sherlock's back. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."  
  
"That feels nice," Sherlock mumbles into the mattress.  
  
John blinks, remembering how Sherlock had been so flummoxed by his embrace at the wedding. "So you don't mind touch, then?"  
  
"Not when I understand its purpose."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind."  
  
"That'll be ... nice...." Sherlock drifts off, his breathing steadier than John has seen in a while.  
  
How had he not noticed this before? _When did I stop seeing medical signs in my best friend?_ John continues running his hand over Sherlock's back and scars. He catalogues every laceration, every whip wheal, every minute hitch of breath when he touches a new rib. His finger catches on a cigarette burn. He'd know those anywhere, even without looking. That's when he realises that whilst he's been soothing – assessing – Sherlock's wounds, he hasn't been looking at them but at the face he hasn't got over missing.  
  
He can hear the nurse's footsteps approaching at twenty yards and turns to look at Sherlock's back when she's likely to look into the room.  
  
"Oh, hello, Doctor Watson! I didn't expect to see you today."  
  
"Had a cancellation. Thought I'd pop by on the way home."  
  
The nurse checks Sherlock's drip. After making a note on the chart she looks pensively from Sherlock to John and asks, "Do you suppose those will get any better?"  
  
John tenses just a fraction. "They might."  
  
"I'm sorry," the nurse says. "It's just that my husband was tortured in Iraq, and, well, I just was wondering ... how I could help."  
  
"Just ... love him, regardless of his scars." John realises then that he still has his hand on Sherlock's back.  
  
"I do! It's just they hurt him so much."  
  
"Just do what John's doing and he'll recover. Only do it without speaking," Sherlock says.  
  
"I'm ... so sorry about him," says John. "Look, if you want to pop round the clinic, we could talk there...."  
  
"Thank you, Doctor. I think I might do that."  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and John surreptitiously pinches a part of his skin that isn't injured.  
  
"Best go, now," he mouths to the nurse.  
  
She nods and leaves as Sherlock shouts at John.  


*****

John had once thought that he understood what 'surreal' meant. He realises for the tenth time today that there is no word in any language he's ever even tried to speak for how far wrong he'd been about that. And he hasn't even finished breakfast, yet.  
  
Breakfast in bed.  
  
Breakfast in bed with Sherlock.  
  
Breakfast in bed with Sherlock in Sherlock's parents' house.  
  
Breakfast delivered by Mycroft to him, where he's in bed with Sherlock in Sherlock's parents' house.  
  
In bed.  
  
In Sherlock's parents' house.  
  
With Sherlock, who is asleep and who stopped crying out last night only when John actually stretched out on the bed instead of just sitting on it.  
  
And John's heavily pregnant wife is in what was meant to be their room down the corridor.  
  
"You should go back to Mary."  
  
"Christ, Sherlock!" John starts looking for things he should not have scattered all over the Holmes's sheets, however far Sherlock might have made him jump, only to discover his breakfast starting to think about congealing where Mycroft had placed it on his lap.  
  
"You should probably eat that before it becomes unbearable." Sherlock eyes the breakfast tray without relish.  
  
"I'm not hungry."  
  
"Then take it to Mary. She could use the extra calories."  
  
"She's off eggs."  
  
"So am I, so either eat them or take them away."  
  
John is not off eggs. He's rather surprised they're still in front of him because he thought he'd been eating them for the past few minutes.  
  
"John."  
  
That tone in Sherlock's voice will always compel John to stop whatever he's doing, even if what he's doing is being empty. He turns his head ever so slightly. "What?"  
  
"You have to sort things out with Mary."  
  
"She's not due for another five weeks. Pregnancy's going to plan. Don't need to do anything yet."  
  
"There's work to be done. And ... you don't want to leave loose ends." Sherlock takes a piece of toast from John's plate.  
  
"Is Magnusson really that dangerous?"  
  
"You've met him. How would you assess the threat?" Sherlock chews pointedly on the toast he's stolen.  
  
"Yeah, alright, he's dangerous." John claims some toast for himself.  
  
"You haven't read the memory stick, have you?" It's more statement than question.  
  
"No."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I haven't had time! Between the clinic and checking on the baby and Mrs Hudson's chats—"  
  
"And checking on me three times a day, every day, when you could be taking the time to find out who your wife really is...."  
  
"And that," John says, as his teeth begin to clench. He realises then that Sherlock's eyes are fixed on him because he can feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek. "And I'm in bed with you. Eating breakfast with you – in bed – in your parents' house."  
  
"Technically, you're on the bed with me, not in bed with me. I'm still under the covers. You never were."  
  
John doesn't know why he feels his heart drop in disappointment. "I'm under the bedspread."  
  
"But you're not between the sheets. It doesn't count if you're not between the sheets." Sherlock shifts. "Thank you, John. I ... needed someone to do what you did last night."  
  
"That's what best friends are for," John says quietly.  
  
"I have been wondering how I got on without one all these years."  
  
John glances sidelong at Sherlock. "I can't tell if you're being sarcastic – haven't had my coffee, yet."  
  
"Neither have I." Sherlock purloins John's cup of it and takes a sip.  
  
"We could have breakfast in the kitchen," John suggests. "We might even be allowed to have separate cups."  
  
Sherlock swallows all the coffee in the cup before handing it back to John. "You can stop in on your way to your room. The one your wife's in."  
  
"The kitchen is in the opposite direction!"  
  
"Well done, you!" The sharp tone of Sherlock's voice coincides with the sweat that's trickling from his temple.  
  
In one smooth move, John is out of bed, setting the tray on the nearest chair and retrieving his medical bag from beside the bed. "Where does it hurt?"  
  
"My chest."  
  
"Let's have a look, shall we?" John starts to help Sherlock open his pyjama top, but Sherlock bats him away. John resists rolling his eyes and fetches the stethoscope from his bag, warming it in his hands as he waits for Sherlock to finish. "Here?" He touches the bullet wound in his most professional manner.  
  
"Deeper."  
  
John applies the stethoscope.  
  
"Thanks," says Sherlock.  
  
"Shh," John replies, in order to listen to Sherlock's lungs and avoid the feelings he's experiencing whilst doing so.  
  
The latter is impossible, though. Even with all the professional detachment in the world, he can't help knowing how close he came to losing his best friend. Even as he knows that Sherlock will survive this, he can't stop the images of loss that flood his soul. And even though he knows that Mary was doing everything she could to save Sherlock, he's not sure he can forgive her for shooting him. And then he notices that Sherlock's breathing has calmed.  
  
"Your lungs are clear," John says, when he can. "How's the pain?"  
  
"Lessening."  
  
"This is probably coming from your sternum. It's not uncommon for that to happen after an injury or surgery so close to it."  
  
"I don't suppose you'd let me take anything for it," Sherlock mutters.  
  
"Not opioids, if that's what you're getting at."  
  
"So what will help it, then?"  
  
"Time, a bit of exercise, adequate water and food, a good outlook on life, sleep ... all those things you never seem to have."  
  
Sherlock gazes up at him. "I sleep better when you're here."  
  
"I thought you said I should sort things out with Mary."  
  
"Yes. Sort them out. Doesn't mean live happily ever after with her. That's a myth, no matter how much one loves someone else."  
  
"I still can't go back to her. Not yet."  
  
"Then stay here. Tonight."  
  
It's John's turn to have trouble with his chest.  
  
"You've been limping again. Just a bit, but—"  
  
"It happens, all right? It just – happens."  
  
"And I really do sleep better when you're here."  
  
"I don't want to betray Mary."  
  
"Given how things are between the two of you, I doubt it matters much where you spend your nights as long as it isn't with another woman. This isn't a marriage proposal, John."  
  
The sting of it hits John with unexpected force. He blinks.  
  
"Besides, she said it would be all right."  
  
"What?" Where John was tempted to kiss Sherlock a few seconds ago, now he's moving towards killing him. Kiss, kill – only two letters' difference.  
  
"Well, not as such," Sherlock emends. "We never actually discussed this. Not in words."  
  
"Oh, so you just sort of mind melded – one psychopath to another."  
  
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose." Sherlock searches John's eyes. "Please, John. The dreams go away when someone's with me."  
  
"Someone. Janine?"  
  
"I just put it down to the sexual side-effects."  
  
"Have you tried ringing her up?" John gives him a practised smile and rises from the bed, putting away his stethoscope.  
  
"That door has closed." Sherlock gets out of bed carefully. "And I think you may be labouring under a false premise."  
  
"Oh? What false premise might that be?" John can't tell whether the flutter he's feeling is one of excitement or terror. It's probably both, though he really doesn't want to admit that he rather enjoys that idea.  
  
"That I'm straight."  
  
"You said—"  
  
"I said that I wasn't gay."  
  
"So you're bisexual?"  
  
"Sort of. More like demi-pansexual, if you must categorise it." Sherlock pulls on a robe, oblivious to his unbuttoned pyjama top.  
  
"Oh."  
  
"All of which is to say that whilst I have a secondary sexual attraction to you, I'm not asking you to stay here tonight for sex. I just ... want company. Your company." Sherlock's back is to John, who can see a brief quiver shimmering through the soft robe. "And I might hug you back." He quits the room abruptly, leaving John too stunned to move or even think.  


*****

It takes a five mile walk, conversations with Mary (brief), Mycroft (menacing), Mr and Mrs Holmes (lengthy, thorough and as strangely reassuring as it was exhausting) and Greg Lestrade (over the phone, also lengthy and with the added touch of, 'Well, it is pretty obvious that you want to, isn't it?') and complete avoidance of his best friend that day for John to decide that yes, he'll spend the night with Sherlock. He even bought condoms on his walk, even though he's pretty sure they won't be needed. 'Pretty sure' makes him stop and hang on to his head for a minute, or so. It also makes him realise that even without the walk, the conversations or the avoidance, he'd already made up his mind. He's just glad that he doesn't have to go to the trouble of fighting anyone about it.  
  
"Maybe I'm a psychopath, too," John mutters.  
  
"Nope. As Mary said, it's what you like." Sherlock stops about six feet behind him. "It's not what you _are_ like."  
  
John all but clenches a fist before taking a breath. "Would you care to categorise my sexuality next? Because right now, I'm not sure I have it filed in the right place."  
  
The world suddenly seems very noisy and John wishes that he had the means to turn it off.  
  
"Does it matter, John?" Sherlock's voice is quiet, stripped of its usual _hauteur_. "Sex isn't my area, but isn't it a bit more ... fluid these days?"  
  
John turns around to find Sherlock within striking – kissing – distance. "'Fluid'," he says at the same time as Sherlock.  
  
And then they're both giggling like schoolboys and sort of leaning on each other and almost hugging, even though neither of them has had a drop to drink, and John can't remember the last time he felt so light.  
  
They let each other go and have to stop looking at each other when they start laughing again.  
  
And then Mycroft enters. "It's time for tea, according to Mummy."  
  
"Oh, all right," says John.  
  
Mycroft glances at John with something curdling in his eye.  
  
"Stop it, Mycroft!" Sherlock glares at his brother.  
  
"Yes, do stop it, Mycroft." Mr Holmes's voice is, as always, gentle. However, John notices the implacable power behind his eyes.  
  
Mycroft bites back his response and leaves without so much as a fake smile.  
  
"He's just worried about both of you and a bit scared of his mother," Mr Holmes confides.  
  
John can just see Mycroft pause for a fraction of a second, his stiff back the most effective, faceless glower that John's ever seen.  
  
"Mycroft!" Mr Holmes then smiles at both John and Sherlock. "Teatime."  


*****

John can't sleep. He's sitting in a chair in Sherlock's bedroom because he can't break his promise to Sherlock, even if he didn't state it outright, but he also doesn't want to disturb what seems to be his friend's peaceful sleep. The unresolved separation from Mary isn't sitting with him any better than his unresolved feelings for Sherlock. If he's honest, he finds Sherlock more fun at the moment. If he's more honest, the idea of settling down with either of them is horrifying to him. If he's most honest, he hates them both for being right about him.  
  
Then again, isn't it wonderful to have such an embarrassment of riches? How could he ever have imagined having two of the world's most dangerous people falling apart over him when he's felt such a failure on the personal front for so long?  
  
He'd start banging his head against a hard surface if he thought Sherlock would sleep through it.  
  
And then there's movement from the bed and John recognises the signs of fitful dreaming. He pricks up his ears and listens every bit as intently as he looks.  
  
Sherlock isn't intelligible in his dream state. His movements under the covers are small, his face barely registering a twitch, at first, as lips move out of rhythm with language or body motion. But then there's more movement, more stiffening, as though he's trying to push his way out of something, and his face starts to contort – "NO!"  
  
John holds very still, gathering himself to act or just listen, as and when. But it's hard to stay that way when Sherlock is muttering incoherent sounds and syllables interspersed with whimpers and curses and fractions of laughter that could only ever have meant unimaginable pain.  
  
Sherlock sits bolt upright, eyes wide open and unfocused, staring into past horrors. "John...no!"  
  
John moves when Sherlock starts to get out of bed. "Sherlock," he says quietly. He says it again when Sherlock's feet are on the floor, and then louder when he puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to prevent him from getting out of bed.  
  
That's when Sherlock starts awake. "Wha...what am I ... what are you doing here?"  
  
"Sherlock, focus!"  
  
Sherlock stares straight ahead.  
  
"At me. Look at me!" John shines the exam light in Sherlock's eyes, one after the other. "Wake up, Sherlock!"  
  
Sherlock blinks. "John?"  
  
"That's better."  
  
"I was dreaming again, wasn't I?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"They were killing you. Moriarty ... but you were in Chechnya."  
  
"It's all right, Sherlock. I'm here, very much alive and in your parents' house with you."  
  
"You're supposed to be in bed with me, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes. So in you go...." John pushes Sherlock carefully back into bed, removes his robe and slips in – under the covers and between the sheets – beside Sherlock. "Happy now?"  
  
"Almost." Sherlock reaches for John and gathers him into an awkward, unpractised, thoroughly strange embrace. "Could you perhaps reciprocate?"  
  
"Oh! Yes, of course. No problem." John reaches around and through Sherlock, finally arranging their limbs into something that John thinks he'll never again be able to do without.  
  
"I love you, John."  
  
John squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face to Sherlock's. "I love you, too."


End file.
